If Giuliana Parenzo had been one of those nervous, sensitive women who are always thinking about themselves and fancying that their friends are on the point of betraying them, she would have noticed a little change in Maria’s manner after Castiglione’s visit to Rome. It was not that Maria was at all less fond of her than before, or less affectionate, or apparently less glad to see her. It was much more subtle than that. There is a great difference between a hungry man and a man who merely has an appetite. The one must have food, the other is only pleased to have it. Giuliana’s friendship had long been a necessity to Maria, but it now sank to the condition of being merely an added satisfaction in her life. Formerly she would not have given it up for anything else; but now, if she could have been forced to choose between Castiglione and Giuliana, she would have given up her friend.

The Marchesa, however, was not a sensitive or nervous woman, and she noticed nothing of the change that had taken place. She was therefore very much surprised when her husband spoke to her about Maria. It was late in the afternoon, some days after Castiglione had gone back to Milan, and Parenzo had come home tired from the Foreign Office and was smoking in his wife’s dressing-room, which was his favourite resort at that hour. Like many busy women, Giuliana had her writing-table there, in order to be safe from interruption, and she was occupied with some notes which had to be finished before dinner, while her husband sat in a low straw chair watching her, and devising a new costume for their approaching trip to England. He had always considered it his especial mission to superintend his wife’s dress, and his taste was admirable. He was a small wiry man with a neat reddish beard, not much hair on the top of his head, and a single eyeglass. But he had an energetic nose and forehead, and a singularly pleasant smile.

Giuliana finished one of her notes and looked up, and instantly the smile came into his face, for he was quite as much in love with her as when he had married her. She looked pleased, and nodded to him before taking another sheet of paper.

‘I wanted to ask you about Maria Montalto,’ he said suddenly, arresting her attention.

Giuliana looked a little surprised, and laid down her pen.

‘Yes, dear. What do you wish to know about her?’

‘You are just as intimate with her as ever, are you not?’ he inquired.

‘Oh, yes! What could come between us? Why do you ask?’

‘Because if you are as good friends as you always used to be, I think you had better tell her that people are talking about her. I like her, too, and it is a great pity that anything disagreeable should be said, especially if there is no ground for it.’

‘I’m sure there is none,’ said Giuliana promptly. ‘What is the gossip about her?’

‘That she is seeing too much of Baldassare del Castiglione.’

‘He is in Milan, my dear. How can she see much of him? What nonsense! Really, Mondo, you should not repeat such stuff to me! It’s too absurd!’

Parenzo’s first name was Sigismondo, of which Mondo is the diminutive. He shook his head quietly at his wife’s rebuke.

‘I know he is in Milan,’ he answered. ‘But he was here for a fortnight a while ago, and people are saying that they met every day. When he did not go to see her early in the afternoon, they met in quiet corners and walked together.’

‘I suppose that by “people” you mean Teresa Crescenzi,’ laughed Giuliana. ‘She is the mother of all gossip, you know.’

‘It was de Maurienne who told me,’ rejoined Sigismondo.

‘That’s the same thing!’ Giuliana laughed again.

‘Oh, is it? I did not know. You don’t say so!’

Parenzo seemed amused and interested. Monsieur de Maurienne was a second secretary of the French Embassy, a rich man with artistic tastes, who gave out that if he were ordered to any other post he would leave the service and continue to live in Rome.

‘Teresa means to marry him,’ Giuliana explained. ‘I daresay she will. Of course, the story about Maria comes from her. There is not a word of truth in it. Castiglione is gone to Milan and may not come back for years.’

‘My dear, I’m always ready to take your opinion in such matters. But this afternoon Casalmaggiore—you know who I mean?’

‘The Colonel of Piedmont Lancers?’

‘Yes. He dropped in to see me at the Foreign Office about a special passport for a friend of his, and he happened to say that Castiglione had asked to exchange back into his old regiment, and that the matter would certainly be arranged, as every one liked him so much. The Colonel was very curious to find out whether there was a lady in the case, and what her name might be. He seems to have plenty of curiosity, Casalmaggiore! I said I knew nothing about Castiglione’s love affairs, and I did not refer him to Teresa Crescenzi, for he was the last man she tried to marry before de Maurienne! That was all.’

Giuliana looked at her husband gravely.

‘I did not know that Castiglione wished to come to Rome,’ she said. ‘I doubt if Maria knows it, and I’m almost sure she will not be pleased.’

‘I should not think she would,’ answered Sigismondo Parenzo. ‘And I’m quite sure that she won’t like to have her name coupled with his. Go on with your notes, my darling. If you think it best to speak to her, do so. Whatever you do will be right.’

‘I hope so, dear,’ answered Giuliana rather vaguely.

Then she smiled at her husband again and went on writing.

Maria was very far from guessing that she was already so much talked of. She had lived so long in the pleasant security of a half-retirement from the world, and in the halo of semi-martyrdom created by Teresa Crescenzi’s original story, that she fancied herself unwatched and her behaviour uncriticised. She would certainly never have thought of connecting any change in Teresa’s disposition towards her with the fact that they had met in a lonely street after sunset, both wearing veils and telling each other that they had been to confession. She had not even taken the trouble to suspect that Teresa had not told the truth; still less had she guessed that Teresa was just then at a critical moment of her existence and was playing a very dangerous game in the hope of marrying Monsieur de Maurienne. Maria did not even know where he lived; and if she had ever bestowed a thought upon that, she would have supposed that he had rooms in the Embassy at the Palazzo Farnese.

She was too happy now to think about indifferent people. She had seen Baldassare twice again before he had left, and each time it had seemed easier and more delightful to be with him. He had behaved perfectly, and had shown that he was in earnest and meant to lead the ideal life of innocent and loving intercourse which she had planned for herself and him. Between their meetings she had written him long and eloquent letters, breathing peace, and hope, and an undying love in a sphere far beyond this daily, earthly life. He had answered those letters by shorter ones that echoed them and promised all they asked. When he had come again he had stayed over an hour; when he came the last time he stayed almost all the afternoon, and Maria had boldly told Agostino that she was not at home for any one except the Marchesa di Parenzo. There was surely no harm in saying this, she thought, although she knew quite well that Giuliana and her husband were gone to Viterbo in a motor-car and would not return till late in the evening. She told herself that by some unforeseen accident they might come back sooner, and that Giuliana might appear about tea-time; and that it was therefore quite honest and truthful to tell Agostino that the Marchesa was to be admitted, if she came, well knowing that the chances were about ten thousand to one against anything so disagreeable. The improbable had happened twice lately—Maria had chanced to meet Castiglione at Saint Peter’s, and Teresa had chanced to meet him just after meeting her. Those were two coincidences, both of which had produced more important results than might have been anticipated; but it was not likely that there should be any more for a long time.

Giuliana did not come back unexpectedly, and Maria and Castiglione were alone together from half-past two till nearly six; and during all that time there was no approach to anything which might have disturbed her certainty that they were both sure to keep the promise they had made. When they parted she laid both her hands on his and looked up into his face a little expectantly. He might have given her one harmless kiss when he went away. But he did not. He shook his head and smiled, and he went away.

She was proud of him then; she was also a very little disappointed, though she would not have acknowledged it for worlds. He was right, of course.

When he had left Rome she made an examination of her conscience, for somehow she found it very hard to do so when she was expecting to see him soon. She was alone with herself now, and she felt strong and satisfied in every way, except that she longed to see him again. She smiled when she remembered the grim old Capuchin’s words. A deadly risk? A mortal sin? What risk had she run with such a man as Castiglione? What mortal sin had she committed? She thought of her life during the past years with amazement now. Why had she suffered so much and so uselessly? Why had she never told herself the truth, faced it, humbled herself to tell it to him, and found peace in all those years? There had been a few hard moments when she had done it at last, it was true; but they were forgotten now.

Yet there was one thing she must do, and she must do it at once. She would not go back to the Capuchin, but she would certainly go to some other confessor, not her own, and make sure that she had found absolution, not for what she had done lately, since she was absolutely sure that she had done right, but for that long unacknowledged moment of weakness years ago. No priest in his senses could refuse her absolution for that.

She meant to be as careful and scrupulous as she had ever been in the hardest days; but it was not easy to feel very humble and repentant just when she was so very happy, just when she felt that the new life was lifting her up, together with the man she loved so well.

It did not seem wrong either to go to a confessor whose name she knew, and who had the reputation of being a very mild man, who always took the most gentle and charitable point of view. She had once heard Giuliana say with a laugh that he must have listened to some astounding confessions in his day, stories that would make one’s hair stand on end, because he was such a mild man, and so charitable; but even Giuliana admitted that he was as good as he was kind. There was no reason why Maria should not go to him.

She made an appointment with him in a quiet and remote church; she put on the grey veil and went in a cab in the afternoon, and she got what she hoped for. She came home, and Leone was waiting for her; and when she turned up the veil and kissed him there was a bright smile in her face.

He looked at her critically for a moment.

‘To-day it was a good priest,’ he said, in a satisfied tone. ‘I don’t hate this priest. You should always go to this one!’

‘Perhaps I shall,’ Maria answered, still smiling.

Early next morning she went out again, and knelt at the altar rail of the little new oratory that stands in a side street not far from where she lived, and a young priest with a martyr’s face came and gave her the Sacrament; and all was still and peaceful and happy; and she came home after her meditation, feeling that everything was right in heaven and earth, and that there could be no more sin in the world, and she would not even think of that bitter moment a week ago when she had bowed her head upon her hands and had cried out bitterly against the miserable weakness of this dying body.

She had her tea and toast in her dressing-room, and Leone sat at the same little table and had his breakfast with her. She did not quite dare to look at him just then, but his presence somehow made her almost mad with happiness. She felt that God had taken away the reproach at last, and that she had a right to her son.

So they laughed and talked, and she made beautiful plans for days in the country together, and for a month at Anzio in the hot weather, or even two, and Leone was to learn to swim and was to go out sailing with her, and they were to be just ‘we two.’ But were there soldiers at Anzio? Not only there were soldiers, but there was a firing ground for big guns, with butts, and sometimes one heard the cannon booming all the morning, and one could see the smoke come out and curl up after each shot. This was almost too much for the small boy, and he too went almost mad with joy and broke out with the brazen voice of healthy small-boyhood, yelling the tune of the royal march and brandishing his spoon over his head as if it were a sabre and he were leading a charge of cavalry.

Then Destiny knocked at the door.

‘Come in,’ said Maria Montalto cheerfully.

Agostino brought a telegram, and she took it eagerly from the salver and tore it open. It could only be from Castiglione—the news that he had got his exchange into his old regiment. There was no one else in the world who would be likely to telegraph to her. Then she read the printed words.

‘My mother died peacefully last night. A letter follows to-day.—Diego.’

Maria’s face changed suddenly, and grew grave and thoughtful. Leone, who had stopped singing, laid down his spoon and watched her. He did not think she looked as if anything had hurt her very much, but he saw that something serious had happened.

She read the telegram over again, and folded it before she looked up at him.

‘Your grandmama is dead, my dear,’ she said gently. ‘She died last night. You never saw her, but you will have to wear black for a little while.’

‘Was it papa’s mother?’ asked Leone.

‘Yes, dear. He telegraphs that he will write to-day.’ She looked out at some green trees which she could just see through the open window. Leone was reflecting on the news.

‘Was she good or bad?’ he asked presently.

Maria looked round and smiled faintly at the abrupt childish question.

‘She was a good woman, darling.’

‘Is papa like her?’ asked the boy.

‘Yes,’ Maria replied, after a moment’s thought. ‘Yes, he is like his mother, I think. She was a very grand old lady with dark eyes and iron-grey hair.’

‘Am I like papa?’ inquired Leone.

‘No, dear. You are not like him.’ Maria rose from the table rather quickly.

‘Why not, mama?’

‘I cannot tell,’ answered Maria from the window, and not looking round.

‘Because most of the boys are, you know,’ continued Leone. ‘There’s Mondo Parenzo, and Mario Campodonico, and——’

She could have screamed.

Happily Leone remembered no more striking family likenesses just then, and presently she heard him get down from his chair and go off, as he had a way of doing when no one paid attention to what he said. It was also time for the morning inspection of his weapons, and he had lately noticed a slight tendency to rust about the breech of his newest tin gun, which worked just like a real one, and made nearly as much noise.

When Maria was alone she recovered herself almost instantly, and when her maid came to her she was quite calm. She began to give orders about mourning, for in Rome that matter is regulated by custom with the most absolute precision, to the very day, and not to conform to the rules is regarded as little less than an insult offered to the family of the relative who has died. Montalto had a good many more or less distant relations in Rome, but it was not only out of consideration for them that Maria went into mourning on that very day and dressed Leone in black and white; if there was one being in the world whose sorrow she was bound to respect outwardly as well as in every other way, that man was her husband.

The death of the Dowager Countess of Montalto was in itself a matter of indifference to her; she was much more affected by the announcement that a letter from Montalto himself would soon be on its way to her, and by the fact that she would have to answer it. Years had elapsed since the two had written to each other, and the moment of her final reconciliation with Castiglione and with her conscience was not the one she would have chosen for renewing her correspondence with the husband she had injured.

Meanwhile she telegraphed a short and formal message expressing her profound sympathy for his bereavement. More than this she could not do.

She wrote to Castiglione later in the morning, for they had agreed that they would write very often, and she interpreted this to mean every day. But writing was very unsatisfactory now, and she felt a mad desire to see him and hear his voice. It was not that she had any great trouble to tell him, and when she had written down the news of the Countess’s death it seemed a very small matter compared with what filled her heart to overflowing. She poured out her love in words she would hardly have spoken if he had been beside her, lest the great promise should be endangered. She told him truly that he was the light of her life and the glory of her heart, and that no woman had ever loved him as she loved him; and this indeed was true, and she knew it. She called him heart of her heart and soul of her soul, she blessed him, she prayed for him, she bade him believe as she believed, lest death should part for ever what Heaven had at last made one. She wrote long and eloquently, she pressed innocently passionate kisses upon the last words, and she sent the letter on its way without reading it over.

She busied herself in all sorts of ways that day; she could not find enough to do, enough to plan, enough to occupy her thoughts; and though she did all cheerfully, telling herself that she was as happy as she had been in the early morning, there was something that hurt her, somewhere in her heart.

Giuliana came to dine alone with her that evening. Afterwards they sat together a long time, talking of many things not especially important. Then Maria spoke at last.

‘Giuliana, tell me something. Do you think Leone is like his father?’

Her friend looked at her steadily for three or four seconds before she answered.

‘Yes, dear. He is very like him already.’

Maria bent her head and looked at her hands before she answered.

‘I think so, too,’ she said. ‘Thank you for telling me frankly.’

Giuliana saw that the moment was favourable for saying more, and after a little pause she leant forward in her chair, with her elbows on her knees and her chin resting on her joined fingers. Maria knew that something important was coming.

‘What is it?’ she asked.

‘Teresa has been talking about you again, dear,’ said Giuliana.

‘Has she invented a new story?’

‘Yes. She is telling every one that you have been seeing a great deal of Balduccio.’

Maria bent her smooth brows a little, and asked to be told more precisely what Teresa had said. Giuliana repeated to her what Parenzo had told her, and Maria listened in silence. The Marchesa concluded by saying that whether it were true or not that Castiglione was coming back to Rome, Maria ought to know what the Colonel had said about it. Maria nodded thoughtfully and still looked down.

‘That much is true,’ she said at last. ‘He is coming back, if he can exchange. But the rest, about our meeting in quiet streets—that is pure invention.’

Giuliana looked grave. She had known something of the truth during all these years, and she had understood her friend, as she thought, and had silently sympathised with her steady effort to atone for her fault. Very good women generally draw a sharp dividing line in such cases. Giuliana had always been sorry for Maria and had helped her in many ways, without asking any confidences, to recover her self-respect and the relative esteem of the people amongst whom she lived. But the idea that Maria should ever again, under any imaginable circumstances, meet and talk with Castiglione, even in the most innocent way, was revolting to Giuliana, and it was long since she had received such a shock as disturbed her equanimity when Maria admitted the truth of what the Duca di Casalmaggiore had told Parenzo. Her face changed instantly, she leaned back again in her chair, folded her arms, and looked at the mantelpiece. Altogether she assumed an attitude of resistance, and Maria understood that she was displeased.

‘You think I am wrong to let him come back, don’t you?’ Maria asked, rather timidly.

‘Yes,’ Giuliana answered without the least hesitation, ‘I do.’

‘I will try and tell you what I feel and what I hope,’ Maria said. ‘You will understand me then, I’m sure. You will think I may be right.’

‘I doubt it,’ replied the Marchesa, but her crossed arms relaxed a little, and she settled herself to listen to her friend’s story.

Maria spoke quietly at first. She did not mean to tell all when she began, but by degrees she felt that nothing less than the whole truth could justify her in her friend’s eyes. She talked on nervously then, sometimes in a tone of passionate regret, sometimes in a strain of exaltation; she spoke very truthfully of facts, she even told of her interview with Monsignor Saracinesca and of her confession to Padre Bonaventura, the Capuchin monk, and all this was clear enough. It was when she gave the rein to her imagination and described the ideal life of innocent love and trustfulness which she hoped to lead with Baldassare that Giuliana stopped her abruptly.

‘It is not possible,’ said the Marchesa. ‘You should not think of such things. One can forgive a single fault in those one is very fond of, but to forgive another is quite a different matter!’

‘There is no danger,’ Maria answered confidently. ‘But as for forgiving, the Bible says something about seventy times seven!’ she smiled.

‘My dear,’ rejoined Giuliana, with the unconscious humour of a virtue beyond all attack, ‘seventy times seven would be a great many, in practice. Besides, there is danger, I am sure. A woman capable of rising to the moral height you talk of must certainly feel an insurmountable horror of seeing the other man as long as her husband is alive. If she can forgive herself and him, she has not a very delicate conscience, it seems to me! She might possibly see him once, but after that she would beg him to stay away, out of respect for her absent husband, against whom any more meetings would be an offence. And besides, every one knows that there is nothing more absolutely false, and ridiculous, and impossible than a friendship based on love! I’m sorry if you do not like what I say, Maria, but I tell you just what I think!’

‘You do, indeed!’ answered the younger woman, in a hurt tone.

‘I cannot help it,’ said Giuliana. ‘You have told me some things about yourself this evening which I never dreamt of, but nothing you have told me has had any effect on what I thought from the first. You are doing very wrong in letting Castiglione come back. You ought never to see him while your husband is alive. That is what I think, and I shall never say it again, for it is of no use to give the same advice more than once.’

Giuliana rose to go home, for it was half-past ten. Her face was grave and calm, and a little severe. Maria rose too, feeling as if a conflict had begun which must in the end force her to give up either Giuliana or Castiglione.

‘Giuliana,’ she said sadly, ‘you will not throw over our friendship because you do not approve of everything I do, will you?’

Giuliana faced her and held out her hand frankly.

‘No,’ she answered. ‘I’m not that sort of friend. But if I see you are going wrong I shall try to save you in spite of yourself.’

‘Thank you, dear,’ said Maria, trying to feel grateful; ‘but I shall not go wrong. You don’t quite understand me—that’s all.’

‘I hope you are right,’ replied Giuliana, ‘but I believe you are quite mistaken.’

They did not part very cordially, and when Giuliana was alone in her carriage she almost made up her mind to save her friend by force. She thought of writing to Castiglione himself, to tell him frankly that it was his duty as a man of honour to stay away. He might possibly have accepted the warning if she had carried out her intention, but she soon saw many reasons for not interfering so directly.

‘Beware of first impulses,’ says the cynic, ‘for they are generally good ones.’